In Memoriam
by AlanSchezar
Summary: The secret memoirs of the erstwhile "Cleopatra of Crime," Dianne Ratigan, daughter of the late Professor. Time will tell whether the public is truly ready to know the truth behind her final trial. -Posted with permission of and in honour of Twisted-Wind of DA, creator of the awesome character of Dianne Ratigan.


The memory of those events is indelibly etched into my psyche. Even unto my last breath, if all else shall fade from my mind's eye and weary years leave me bereft of recollection, those moments shall ever remain as though a mere breath separates them from the present.

It was a bleak, chill morning in November of '86 when I was brought before the court of Mouse Magistrates for the last time. The trial, though immensely complex in that it comprised the complete and utter dissection of my entire criminal empire, was concluded in a matter of only four days thanks to the undeniable acumen of the famous "Great Mouse Detective," Basil of Baker Street.

He sat silent and stone faced in the first row of the gallery flanked by Inspector Gregory Strand of Scotland Yard and his compatriot Dr. Dawson. Although he diligently avoided my gaze, I noticed more than once his eyes fixed upon me. I returned only a hate filled glare, but I could not help seeing the mournful caste in his eyes. As the Chief Magistrate heard the closing remarks from the Crown, I saw Inspector Strand lean over to make a quiet remark to Basil. Though I was, naturally, too far to hear, I saw him mouth the words, "It's a hanging job." I felt a chill run through me and a sickly feeling rise in the pit of my stomach; for the first time, I felt the icy fingers of mortal dread clutch at my heart. And yet strangely, in that wordless moment, the steel resolve that overtook Basil's eyes gave me the faintest glimmer of hope.

"It seems to me," the Chief Magistrate began in his pompous baritone, "That the case could not be clearer, and that the only suitable punishment which can possibly answer to the heinous and prolific nature of young Miss Ratigan's crimes is-"

"Mi'lord, if you please!" said Basil, upstarting. His sudden interjection sent a ripple of gasps and whispers through the gallery and the Chief Magistrate banged his gavel furiously for silence. He leaned forward and narrowed his puffy eyes at Basil. "Sir!" he blustered, "This is highly irregular!"

The tall, slender detective returned a humble bow, though the steel did not vanish from his eyes. "I beg your pardon, Milord, but if it please the court, I should very much desire to make a few closing remarks of my own."

The magistrate slumped back in his seat, his drooping jowls jerking one way, then the other, until with a shrug of his shoulders and a perk of one eyebrow, he said, "Well, I suppose there can be no harm in it, and perhaps it is only proper in light of your enormous service to Her Majesty's realm in regards to this matter." He gestured to the witness box with a bulbous hand, "Please take the witness stand, sir."

I shall never know if Basil saw the dread in my eyes as he passed in that moment, but as he took the stand, the faint hope which had sprung up in me was extinguished and I could only gaze at the floor between my boots as he began to speak.

"Ladies and gentlemice of the court, no one knows better than I the depth of criminal cunning and deviousness which lurks in the mind of Dianne Ratigan. Like her late father, she has in only a brief time ensnared all of London in a web of criminal intrigue and lawlessness which perhaps in some ways surpasses even that which he drew over our fair city. Indeed, if it were Professor Padraic Ratigan standing in the dock before you, I should very gladly see him hang, even if the achievement were at the cost of my own life. But for all the ways in which they are alike, there is a fundamental difference between the late Professor Ratigan and his daughter which I should be remiss if I did not bring to the court's attention."

He paused, and an anxious and confused murmur rolled through the room before he continued. "There have been, I must admit, several occasions during our prolonged contest upon which I found myself completely at the mercy of Miss Ratigan. Indeed, had she so desired, I would be dead and buried and, let it not be forgotten, she would not be standing in the dock facing the gallows at this moment."

More murmurs and gasps; every eye in the room was now riveted on Basil, including, I must confess, my own. I have been told that my jaw was agape as well, though I was oblivious to everything but the strange testimony unfolding before me.

"In my final encounter with her father, he viciously attempted to murder me, and ultimately plunged to his death as a result. There was no shred of goodness to be found in the bloodthirsty heart of Professor Ratigan. It is my firm belief, however, that for all her mischief and criminal depravity, there exists in Miss Ratigan a spark of decency, of mercy and of compassion which, for all her sins, is undeniable proof that she is not irredeemable." He turned to the board of magistrates, and with greater passion than I had ever seen in his eyes, continued his plea, "Honorable Gentlemice, I humbly beg you to spare the prisoner's life, if for no other reason than to prove the supremacy of right, decency, honour and justice over malice, cruelty and vengeance. Do not permit her life, a life which for all its faults and wrongs, is nevertheless endowed with enormous potential, to conclude so miserably at the end of the hangmouse's rope. Spare her, I say, in hopes that the faint spark of decency which glows in the heart of Dianne Ratigan may yet be given the chance to turn such a prodigious intellect to nobler ends than crime and render good service to Her Majesty's realm."

I blinked at him in mute astonishment. He merely bowed to the board of Magistrates and strode from the courtroom without another word, or even a look back. There was a raucous eruption of chattering at the conclusion of his speech, and it was necessary for the Chief Magistrate to welt his desk vigorously with his gavel before order could be restored. There was a murmur of conversation from the Magistrates, and for perhaps several minutes after (I had not recourse to a watch, but with my life hanging in the balance, it might as well have been an eternity) silence reigned. At last, the Chief Magistrate broke the silence with his verdict and his sentence.

Ten years was the penalty for my many sins. Ten long and arduous years in the stoutest, coldest, blackest dungeon in all of Merry England, but it might as well have been a hay-penny fine at that moment in the courtroom. How could it be that the Great Detective who had brought me to utter ruin and confinement should also be the one to save me from the noose? It was a question which would haunt me for years after.

Despite his impassioned plea which ultimately saved my life, I endeavoured to nurse what tatters remained of my once fierce hatred for Basil, for the mouse responsible for the horrid, ignominious death of my father, but in the dim loneliness of my confinement, what remained of my hatred withered and died. I came to know, first with a sense of anger, then of despair, that I had fallen in love with him. I had set out to ruthlessly manipulate him, to bring him to destruction by the working of my feminine wiles, and yet all the time I thought I was merely toying with him, I was becoming inextricably ensnared myself. My love for Basil of Baker Street became both the albatross strung around my neck and the thing with feathers that perched in my soul and kept me back from the blackest abyss of misery I might otherwise have plunged into. If not for that faint, irrepressible glimmer of hope, I might well have ended my sufferings of my own accord. It was, however, an irrational hope, as hope is wont to be; I could never reconcile through reason that unquenchable flame with any real belief that he might feel the same as I.

I cannot overstate how utterly abased were my mind and soul on that dismal, rain streaked afternoon in the autumn of 1896 when the gates of my prison were finally opened to me, and I was set at liberty. I do not say "set free," because as the light stung my eyes despite the brooding storm clouds above, and the vision of the grey-brown sludge of the London street and the lifeless dun of ancient tenements met my gaze, I felt only misery.

Into this paradoxical grief the all too familiar clattering of carriage wheels and hoof-beats on cobbles intruded, and a large black Hansom halted in front of the gate of the human prison of which my far smaller dungeon was a part. Its occupant alighted, and shortly it drove off, but as man, beast and cab departed, I became aware that they had left behind a solitary figure. Before me, soaking in the relentless rain, stood the tall, erect figure of Basil.

At once I was overcome with a torrent of emotion. In the same instant I wanted both to leap upon him and gouge out his eyes, and to throw my arms around him, kiss him and never let go. Presently, the notion that his true intention in coming must be to gloat over me in his ultimate triumph, to see his greatest nemesis crushed, bereft and ruined, flooded my mind and my knees gave way. I fell in the mud, my skirts in a filthy heap around me, my fingers clutching the sodden earth and tears welling in my eyes. At length I mastered myself, however, and choking back my gall and my tears, I said, "So you've finally come to collect your dues, Detective...the last Ratigan's face in the mud under your heel...bravo, sir, to the victor go the spoils..."

He walked slowly toward me and halted a step away. Though it was almost painful, I raised my eyes to meet his. What I saw truly awed me; his eyes reflected the most profound compassion I had ever witnessed in the eyes of another. In silence he held out his hand to me, and with trembling fingers I took hold of it. He smiled and raised me up from the filthy pavement, pulling me into his arms and nestling his cheek against my own. My breath was stolen and my heart seemed to be in my throat. Long we stood there in silence under the beating rain, the only other sound our slow, steady breaths. When he spoke, his voice was a deep, tender whisper.

"My dearest Dianne...I did not come to beat you down, but to raise you up. Dozens of times I took up my pen to write you, but each time I was unable, until finally I understood that only this moment was worthy of what I had to say. Your kiss has never left my lips, Dianne...it has haunted me these ten years, and only now that justice has been fully served can I confess the truth...I love you, my dearest one, and whatever path you may choose henceforth, I shall ever love you with all my heart and soul."

That was the moment wherein I discovered the truth behind the mystery of the Great Mouse Detective. That which lay so cleverly concealed beneath the mask of cold calculation and unfeeling reason which Basil had meticulously crafted and scrupulously worn, was no less than the most tender, compassionate, courageous, and loving heart which I had ever known or would ever know.

That truth became more deeply emblazoned on my heart with each passing year we spent together, and indeed many of the further adventures we shared as mouse and wife are familiar to the public thanks to the chronicles penned by our dear departed friend, Dr. Dawson. As admirable and excellent as Dr. Dawson's writings may be, I felt both entitled and compelled to commit my unique understanding of Basil to posterity. My late husband Basil was the truest, kindest and noblest heart I ever knew, and though he has been gone these seven years, his kiss has never left my lips. I am both haunted and comforted by the memory of a truly great mouse, a mouse whom although I was and am not worthy of, I loved with all my heart. I shall commit this account to the capable hands of our dear children, trusting them to decide if and when it shall ever be made public.

Until he and I shall be reunited, I am and shall remain your faithful servant,

Dianne Ratigan


End file.
